


Gates of Dawn/黑暗之谷

by Tyelpesicil



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Implied/Referenced Incest, M/M, Post-War of Wrath, Translation - original link provided
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 08:02:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29486481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyelpesicil/pseuds/Tyelpesicil
Summary: Some clips between Maedhros and Maglor after the War of Wrath.
Relationships: Maedhros | Maitimo/Maglor | Makalaurë
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	Gates of Dawn/黑暗之谷

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [黑暗之谷](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29192637) by [Tyelpesicil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyelpesicil/pseuds/Tyelpesicil). 



> Inspired by: Secret Garden [Gates of Dawn](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xxOh0QTrtFs)  
> 80% of this fic came out of DeepL Translator. So please forgive me if there're any errors.

It was a night of utter silence. Many things had come true, and many were about to happen. 

Prophecy. Judgement. 

Oath. 

It was a night of utter silence. Many things had been foretold, and many were left unknown. 

Melody. Closeness. 

Drop. 

It had been a long time since the inhabitants of Beleriand last seen a night sky clear like fine obsidian. 

It was because the fallen Vala, Morgoth, had twisted the darkness with his discord that the children of Ilúvatar were born to fear darkness as much as they feared evil. 

Now, however, the Dark Enemy of the World had been put on a ship bound for the West to await his trial; the rest of his evil servants had fled, though they had not been completely purged from the land yet. 

Never before had the Moon descended so peacefully and serenely on the lands of Middle-earth. 

The stars and the Moon alternated to give off ancient light of the long-destroyed Telperion, and although they were far from enough to heal the nearly devastated Beleriand, they could at least soothe some pain in many of the wounded souls. 

The Western hosts led by the Ainur camped on a flat field not far from the entrance of Angband. The recently-ceased war had left patches of burnt bushes and soils here and there on the green meadows. 

Stains on the lands that perhaps even Nienna's tears could not wash away. 

But at least the war was over—in the belated wrath of the Valar. 

Without the threat enemies exerted, most of the Elven soldiers in the camp had already gone to rest. 

The campfire among the tents had also degraded, and was on the verge of extinguishing; half-cooled embers were carefully piled up by the logs, barely keeping the remaining heat. 

Soldiers on guard duty slouched around the camp; some even held loosely on their lances and nodded off for a bit. 

Only the main tent that belonged to the general was still radiating faint light from the inside, indicating that he was indeed, fully awake. 

Of course, Ainur had no real forms, and though they also feel weariness emerging in their souls, they would not fall into physical fatigues as easily as any living beings would. 

The last two remaining Feanorians in Beleriand deliberately shed their bulky metal armor for the night. 

Instead of heavy armors, they used a dark cloak to clad themselves in the thickening shadows of night—the Orcs’ blood on them had been scrubbed clean in the river by Maglor, worrying that the foul odors might cause unnecessary trouble. 

They waited stealthily in a beech forest some distance away from the camp. 

"It's just ahead, Makalaurë, what we've been after for over centuries." Maedhros tilted his head slightly to the left, his lower chin brushing the top of Maglor's hood either intentionally or unintentionally; his right arm, unable to hold weapons anymore, wrapped around the younger's waist. 

It was like he intended to make sure that Maglor was actually standing next to him, or rather, that **he** was actually standing next to Maglor. 

Maglor, on his side, silently allowed his brother to hold him close. 

Since the High King’s return from Thangorodrim, Maglor had been firmly committed to taking care of Maedhros’ household while managing the affairs as the Noldor regent. During the long period of convalescence and rehabilitation, the physical contacts between them had inevitably become the only way Maedhros could trust to distinguish between reality and illusion. 

The elder Feanorian's eyes were locked on a particular tent made out of pure white fabric, which, was apparently their target. 

The compulsive oath had been intentionally magnified several times by Morgoth, and even after his capturing, the power he had exerted had not been purified. 

This enabled them to sense almost instinctively where the Silmarils were kept. 

"Come on. Time to end this Oath, at last." Maedhros' voice was one of suppressed weariness and yearning. 

Yearning for a relief. Yearning for an end. 

He tightened his cloak and started heading toward the camp. 

Maglor responded with a quietness in tune with the moonlight and joined his footsteps. 

Those who had been accustomed to military life for years were shallow and vigilant sleepers. 

Even the rustle of an evening wind fluttering the curtains of their tents could awaken them from their sleep in an instant; they always mistook every shadow for the mantle of evil messengers; their hands were always resting on the hilts of their swords, and their nerves were forever tense. 

There was no doubt that the Feanorians and their followers were of this kind. 

After countless assaults and defenses in the dark, they had long learned from practical combat the way to recover as effectively as possible from the extremely dangerous and short-period rest. 

There was no chance of success in trying to sneak up on such people. 

It was a totally different matter, though, for those Vanyar who had crossed the sea from the Blessed Land and arrived on this hither coast of Middle-earth. 

They had just defeated the fallen Vala and his servants with a glorious victory in the clamor of the Maia's golden horn, and had for now banished the shadows that Morgoth once casted upon this miserable land. 

This night was the first time for them to let their guard down and rest for a while. 

Even if the guards did hear the shuffle of boots sneaking through tall grass and did catch a glimpse of a corner of a black cloak, they would hypnotize themselves into believing that it was just a gentle breeze slipping into their tents, and that it was just the shades casted by the wavering leaves on a nearby tree. 

They placed their silver-tipped weapons against the wall and whispered softly in Vanyarin Quenya over the cracking sound of the campfire, exchanging the fancy things they saw in Middle-earth, occasionally humming a hymn to praise the stars above their heads. 

A warden happened to look up, Maedhros pulled Maglor swiftly to hide behind a nearby tent, calculating the most efficient way to sneak in. 

He estimated the strength of these two guards. 

_The voices of the Vanyar have never been tainted with sorrow._ He noticed. _Unlike Noldor—_

Maedhros glanced at his brother by his side. The latter’s eyes downcast, his expression unpredictable. 

For the sake of mobility, Maglor did not carry his harp along tonight, but his fingertips were still dancing in the air, plucking the air-strings in vain. 

At a point, Maedhros was almost certain that he could actually **hear** the soundless melodies streaming down those formless strings. 

His little musician was lost in thought, as if assessing ways to weave the thinnest threads of fate to make their tapestry of life more glorious and gorgeous than ever. 

He indulged Maglor to weave their fate together, for that was also his own desire. 

Since the beginning of their memories, they had always had each other's presence by their sides. 

The luminous Mereth Aderthad; the heavy stone walls where even the cold wind could not penetrate through; the three cruel kin-slayings; the sending off of family members—though only once were they alive—over and over again. 

It could be one of those moments, or perhaps it started way before everything else had happened, even before the rising of the Sun and the Moon. 

In the graceful hall of their grandfather's palace where the fireplace cracked so elegantly; in the garden of Elven Tirion where no lives ever wither; or maybe it was simply on a honey-scented afternoon, at the end of a secret recital with just one divine performer and one devoted audience. 

A smile, they had exchanged back then, and their fate had been bounded together since. 

He wanted to ask the invisible strings in Maglor's hand: after this night, would the ending of their song really turn out as he had imagined? 

But instead, he merely gave Maglor a gentle squeeze on his right shoulder—a tacit and intimate gesture, not only to express that he did not mean to interrupt this soundless feast, but also to drag his brother’s wandering mind back to reality. 

Maglor's gesture paused, then he quickly brought his hand to the dagger on his belt, returning to his usual state of alertness. 

It was quite easy for the Feanorians to bring down a few guards. After all, they had been on the battlefield, mostly on the frontline, for centuries. 

All it took were a single "knock" of Maedhros' left palm and Maglor's hilt on the back of their necks. The two Vanyar at the entrance didn't even have time to grunt before they dropped limply onto the ground. 

The couple sneaked into the white tent. 

There was nothing more in the tent than a red velvet placemat on the central table; on the placemat there rested a small, exquisitely carved wooden case. 

Maedhros exchanged a look with Maglor, then cautiously stepped forward to open the wooden case. 

How unbelievable it was. Father's greatest works were lying in the case. So peacefully, so close, right within their reach. 

Hundreds of years kept in the filthy Angband, and the Silmarils remained as fulgent as ever; the sacred light of the Trees within them had not diminished the slightest. Who would have thought? These jewels ignited the beacon of wars that lasted for an entire age, yet they themselves were undimmed by dust or time. 

Maedhros gazed at them, and inhaled deeply; his well-formed face showing great relief. 

Suddenly, somebody pulled up the tent flap. 

Maglor spun and reached for his double daggers at his waist, squinting his eyes at the intruders. Standing at the back, Maedhros scoffed slightly, preparing to draw his sword with his left hand. 

The one surrounded by fair elves in full armor was Eönwë, the Chief of the Maiar and the herald under Manwë's order, whose strength in arms was unparalleled. 

His golden armor was clear and bright, his face was gleaming with strength and grace of the West—he was the general of the Western hosts in this War of Wrath. 

Eönwë's hawk-like eyes first noticed the wooden case that had obviously been shifted on the table, then he turned to gaze at the brothers' dark cloaks and their hostile glances. He then made a fair assumption about the purpose of their visit. 

"Feanorians, the Oath had driven you here for the Silmarils." Maia's tone was steady, not the least bit rising. 

Not a query, it seemed. 

The one who answered was the copper-haired elf. 

The taller Noldo curled his lips, "Is Lord Eönwë now going to impose our death sentence right here?" 

He shot a glance at the Vanyar who were surrounding the Maia. As they met his gaze, their hands holding their lances flinched. 

"That is not my intention." Maia's stern expression gradually declined to one full of pity and mercy. 

He lifted his hand to stop the elves beside him from aiming their lances forward, then instructed them gently, "Put aside your weapons and let them leave, as they wish to." 

The Vanyar all stared at him in either extreme horror or confusion, but still displayed a high degree of Vanyarin-loyalty. Obediently and smoothly, they carried out the Maia's order. 

The troops stepped aside—although, even if the Maia hadn't given his order, they wouldn't have had the courage to restrain the two Feanorians who were so determined to leave. 

As incredulous as it may sound, the Vanyar who had besieged Angband earlier was now terrified of the Feanorians. 

Along with the light of the Trees, their eyes sparkled with something that the Vanyar could never perceive, perhaps never could **possess**. 

If Eönwë did recognize the flame, he said nothing. 

Before the Feanorians' black cloaks swept past the Vanyar's golden hair like a pair of ravens and vanished into the night, they straightened their backs, didn’t even bother to spare Eönwë a glance. 

They paid no gratitude to the mercy he granted. 

_The sons of Curufinwë Fëanáro indeed. Stubborn as ever even in this situation._

Eönwë shook his head and ordered other elves to carry their two fellow comrades to the healers to examine their injuries. 

"Lord Eönwë... are you just going to let them escape with the Silmarils?" A young Vanya asked, not understanding the chief's order. 

"There have been enough deaths on Beleriand." Eönwë's voice and expression were both equally empathetic, but he did not explain further to the Vanyar, merely picked up the wooden box left behind by Maedhros and sighed deeply. 

The Vanyar, who had always stayed comfortably by the Valar's side, nodded in confusion, still not quite understand why the chief had let the Feanorians off. 

The Maia let the soldiers return to their tents to rest and prepare for departure next morning—after all, there were no more precious stones needed to be guarded carefully for the rest of the night. 

_Even at the very end, at this intersection of fate, they chose to fulfill their oath._

Eönwë could not help but feel a great pity for the whole Beleriand, for Arda, and also for them. 

He opened the wooden case mindlessly, only to drop it the next second. 

A flow of light, unsurpassed by any, poured out generously from the lid, nearly brimming the entire tent into a massive Elven lamp. 

The campsite for the previous night was simple and temporary. 

The Feanorians had the remaining of their followers follow their own wishes, either to escort the twins to Gil-galad's place, or to depart for the harbor to return to the West with Eönwë. 

Maedhros had shed the worn armor that had been draped over his shoulders for decades, and was lying on the freshly damp grass in one of his few remaining red tunics. 

His head was resting on his left arm, and the stumped right arm he placed on his stomach; he stared at Gil-Estel voyaging through the western sky. 

Maglor intended to find a relatively dry spot on the grass, after failing at that, he simply settled down next to his elder brother, holding the harp on his lap and looking up at the sky as well. 

A true musician knew well to wait and listen. Maglor stayed patiently by his brother's side, and the elder one eventually spoke first. 

"Makalaurë, my dearest musician, listen, the wind is weeping tonight." Maedhros murmured, still staring into the night sky, as if trying to peek into their doom. 

That is, the Door of Night mentioned feverishly in their Oath. 

"We've sown the seeds of sin over the land of Beleriand, now we ourselves, shall harvest the bitter fruits." 

He withdrew his left arm that had served as a pillow, then caressed the leafy grass beside him; he now rested his head fully on the damp meadow, not even minding that some tufts of his copper-red hair were drenched into a deeper shade of garnet-red. 

"Pathetically, we are going to make our last attempt by next evening, even if the Silmarils shall disown our ownership over them for our undeniable sins, even if we have already lost all that we once had, as the Curse had claimed long ago, we will still go on. Such is the fate of the House of Fëanor." 

Maglor was silent for some time before responding. 

"...I do not wish to do so." He said softly, almost soft as a sigh, "We have done enough wrongs." 

"Don't you regret it now. When we sent the twins away, we were already doomed to carry out our oath to the very end, were we not?" Maedhros' tone was sarcastic, but instead of reproaching his brother, it is more like a mockery of his own inability to resist being driven by the Oath. 

He took a sharp breath, then continued, "We were only supposed to fight against Morgoth, but instead, we ended up as accomplices to the Dark Lord, slaughtering our own kin over and over again. I, too, would not wish to do this, Makalaurë, yet our past and future are shrouded with darkness, just like our plan tomorrow!" 

By the end of his speech, his voice grew rapid, the shadow that had been cast over his mind for all these years was disseminating to his limbs through his veins. 

The fingers touching the leaves suddenly turned cold as if they had lost too much blood from an injury, then he lost his senses, unable to lift a single fingertip. 

When a drop of water condensed on the edge of the leaf, slipped off his finger then vanished into the soil, Maedhros hardly noticed. 

"But, Maitimo," Maglor's voice dropped at the same time, but it reached his ears without missing a syllable. 

"I dreamed last night of father, mother and our brothers. Feel free to believe it was naught but one of Irmo's tricks, yet... I want to snap this chain of doom still. Mine, yours— **ours.** " 

His fingertips plucked at the harp strings, tinkling out an almost incomprehensible chord, as if he was pondering something deep. 

Maedhros remained in his position, looking up at the sky as he lied stiffly on the carpet-like grass, not moving a bit. 

His ears captured these scattered notes and every calming syllable spoken by Maglor's powerful voice. They converged and mingled together until eventually turned into some strange dots of light within his mind. 

These tiny shimmering dots—they swirled and twirled, emitting a warm, golden glow that reminded him of the ages that was lost to them. 

He craved to reach out and touch those dots, but they seemed so trivial and so fragile before his enormous darkness and desperation. Plus, he could not lift his hand up an inch as though it was trapped in a pile of rough boulders. 

"...Are you trying to force back the darkness of Morgoth with your music of the Eldar, Makalaurë? Even you, I'm afraid, are not capable of doing so." 

Maedhros strived to suppress the longing for those drifting glittering lights deep in his heart, and managed to force a crooked smile on his staunch features, though knowing well that no one would see his stiff expression. 

"The Oath has been infused with Morgoth’s power. Not to say those Valar dwelling in Valinor have not given us another choice to get rid of the Oath." 

Upon hearing this, Maglor withdrew his gaze from the sky, then glanced down at his closest brother before the latter could hide his bitter smile. 

"I was not trying to force it back, Maitimo. Behold." 

The dark-haired musician carefully held up his harp, his hands fluttering back and forth between the strings, sending more bright dots into the elder's mind. 

"Do you see it?" 

Then Maedhros closed his eyes—and saw the image his younger brother had wanted him to see. 

The dots first linked into soaring birds and running deer, then dispersed and re-formed into mountains and valleys, into streams and oceans, into every beautiful being that he had ever seen that he was not really willing to rewind now. 

"Why show me all these?" He asked hoarsely, eyes still shut. _Why show me all these now, when we might not be able to see them again?_

"All those beautiful beings are of the creation of the Valar." Maglor's voice was gentle but firm, just like the brushing sound of their sleeves as he silently held Maedhros' remaining hand. Only then did Maedhros realize that his brother had set aside his harp. 

"—and we are not." 

A part of Maedhros' body could move again. 

His eyes snapped open and he turned his head, looking incredulously at his brother. "Makalaurë..." 

The musician kept on, "Manwë rules all that flies, Nessa leads the prancing deer; Aulë designs every rising and sinking of the continent, and Ulmo is in charge of every single drop of frost and rain that falls at our fingertips. Who, then, Maitimo, had conceived and molded you and me in His mind, long before those birds and beasts, or even the whole Beleriand, the whole Arda, existed?" 

Maedhros tightened his grip unconsciously on the younger’s hand at the words, Maglor's voice lightened up, "The choice was not given to us by the Valar." 

"But when we swore the Oath after father, it was in the name of the one and only Eru!" The older Feanorian shook his head painfully at the younger, "Even now, I can hear it urging me." 

"We had sworn in the name of Ilúvatar, yes, we had." The musician admitted, but didn't back down, "However, the voice that compelled us to seize the Silmarils is not from Ilúvatar, but rather from Morgoth!" 

He paused for a moment, as if considering his words, "Maitimo, do you still remember what the Valar once told the Elves, about the Ainulindalë—what Ilúvatar had said to Morgoth when the latter wove his rebellious discord into the chord?" 

The Elves knew very little about the creation of Arda, but "the Music of the Ainur" was told by the Valar to some Elven scholars, who then wrote it down in ancient scrolls. 

Maedhros frowned. "He had said, _'And thou, Melkor, wilt discover all the secret thoughts of thy mind, and wilt perceive that they are but a part of the whole and tributary to its glory.'_ " 

He tried to recall the contents of the old scrolls, then his eyes widened as the realization hit him. 

_While Morgoth is the mightiest among all Ainur, he can never surpass the will of Ilúvatar._

He hesitated. 

"I understand your intention now, Makalaurë. This Oath—whether we choose to fulfill it or break it, the result shall be to the glory of His creation. But in the breaking... as you said, we shall do less evil." 

_Even only one less._

The red-haired Noldo then smiled sorrowfully, "But the darkness within my mind has already tempted me to take a step into the Door of Night." 

He looked at Gil-Estel slowly sinking below the horizon, "Even if we choose to break it, are we not still stuck in the shadow?" 

"Then, look at those glimmering dots." Maglor leaned in to gaze at Maedhros' well-formed face. Two sets of gray eyes of the same origin were so close that they could see nothing but themselves in the reflection of each other’s eyes. 

"They might not be enough to drive back the darkness, but they can guide you around it. Maitimo, look carefully again, both night and dawn descend from the Far East, they have been entwined together in that Glory. And once you discover that, the white flame that burns ever so brightly in your spirit shall burst through the thick fog." 

_Two of us._ Maedhros found himself correcting the musician in his mind. _You have also this flame within you, even though the outsiders see only mine._

_Yet…_

"What about the Silmarils?" He asked, "What about **us**?" 

Maglor looked at him with an expression of peacefulness that he thought was long lost in all their years of suffering. Maedhros couldn’t even tell how much he’d missed it. 

"Let us bid them farewell by tomorrow night, then renounce them forever—let them be brought far away, as far as possible, to a place where not even the Elven arrows could reach. Father's creation shall no longer be tainted by bloodstains. 

"Let us head east, for Elros has chosen a very different fate from Elrond and us. Let us seek the way Men heal and redeem in the Kingdom he is about to build—hadn't Ingoldo highly praised in his letter the unique perspective of the Wisewoman on 'life'? Perhaps Ilúvatar had revealed the path of regretting and repairing in the Music of Men. So.... 

"So... accompany me back into the Gates of Dawn, would you?" Maglor's long dark hair dangled down beside his cheeks, the end entangled slightly with Maedhros’ own red hair. The pleading finally appeared in his voice. 

Maedhros stared at his dearest kin that had accompanied him the longest in this life, suddenly feeling an itch on the tips of his ears as the dark hair slightly brushed against them. 

He was able to **feel** again. 

He remembered the day way before their arriving at this Hither Land. On an afternoon graced by the Golden Tree, they had stolen a pot of honey tea from the palace kitchen and shared it behind the green bushes when the astonishing recital was over. 

The liquid pouring out of the teapot had seemed orangey-red back then, like Ambarussa and mother's hair; or maybe it had seemed golden, like the eight-pointed star father had inlaid on every bedroom door of theirs. 

But when Maedhros suddenly reached out and pulled Maglor into his arms, he could actually **see** the colors. 

The two remaining Feanorians held on to each other as they lay on the land of the sinking Beleriand, both looking eastward. 

Countless dew-drops gathered on the tips of countless grasses, and in every single one of those pale-gold droplets, there survived a remnant of Laurelin. 

Mornië alantië. (Darkness has fallen.) 

Dawn had arrived.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Ilúvatar's words were cited from _The Silmarillion._  
>  2\. "Mornië alantië." is a lyric from Enya's song _May It Be._


End file.
